


Favourite

by Scaredycattales



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Secret Admirer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-05-02 06:19:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19193419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scaredycattales/pseuds/Scaredycattales
Summary: Prompt Fic - Someone seems to know all of Greg's favourite things.





	1. Chapter 1

Staggering up the stairs to his dismal flat, Greg was trying to decide whether food or sleep was first on his list. After 38 hours straight, it should really have been a shower, but it's not like there was anyone around to care. Fumbling for his keys, he noticed two sleek, expensive-looking chiller boxes. Brushing aside any thoughts of bombs or booby traps, he opened the first one to find two bottles of his favourite craft beer (no longer available in the district) lightly misted with condensation. Eagerly pulling up the lid of the other box, he was immediately swamped with the scent of his absolute favourite Chicken Jalfrezi... with a card from his favourite restaurant, on the other side of town, that didn't do take-away! Too tired to question these apparent gifts from the gods, Greg dragged everything over to his couch, sprawled out, then tucked in to his bounty. All he needed now was his favourite man, the one that didn't even know he existed…


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another hard day, another mystery :-)

The food and beer had been exactly what his tired body had needed. After dinner, he had staggered to his bed and fallen into 10 hours unbroken, dreamless sleep. 

Feeling slightly foolish, Greg left the chiller boxes outside his front door when he left the next morning, unsure of the correct etiquette in this situation. The beer bottles and the restaurant card remained on his coffee table as proof that last night hadn’t been a fatigue-induced hallucination. 

Greg’s hopes of a more harmonious day lasted until he arrived at work, where he was immediately swamped by information, demands, paperwork and problems apparently only he was capable of solving.

The sun had well and truly gone down by the time Greg had the chance to pause and take a breath. “Right, we’ll be here for a while. Whose turn is it to get food?” A muted chorus of “not me’s” later, he was about to put on his jacket when a delivery driver appeared at the door, a pile of red and white pizza boxes in his arms. 

“Lestrade?” 

Mentally kissing his bank balance goodbye, Greg reached for his wallet, only to hear “Already paid for, boss. All you need to do is eat!”

His team fell on the boxes like starving vultures, tearing them open and shoving each other aside to reach their favourites. Greg watched on with a slightly wistful look. His own favourite pizza, a traditional Margherita, did not meet with his team’s approval. Apparently “proper pizza” required meat and a thick, fluffy base. Greg, who had spent some of his misspent youth in Italy, quietly took the hint, as apparently shared pizza should be popular pizza.

Just as he had settled on a slice of “supreme” as the best of what was available, the driver reappeared, placing a dark green box on the desk with an apologetic grin. Ignoring the butterflies in his stomach, that were probably only hunger pangs, Greg walked over and opened the box. Inside was perfection. A thin base, with chunky tomato sauce peeping through pools of bubbling mozzarella, finished with a scattering of fresh basil leaves. The butterflies left his stomach and gathered around his racing heart instead. Who knew him that well? A faint glimmer of possibility crossed his mind and was immediately squashed out of existence. Men such as that didn’t bother with the likes of him...


	3. Chapter 3

A rare quiet day saw Greg duck out of NSY at lunchtime to pick up an Arsenal replica jersey as a birthday present for his youngest niece. Kayla was ten years old, football mad and, luckily, supported the same team that he did. Greg was hoping to watch the game with her on Saturday, work permitting, so that they could both scream at the telly in true Lestrade fashion. Karen (his ex-wife, whom Kayla had dubbed Cruella) never understood the depth of his relationship with his niece, never appreciated the pure joy he found in simply kicking a ball around with her, or how her enthusiastic hugs could soothe his aching heart after a soul-destroying case.

 

Sitting on his desk when he returned was a plain brown envelope, with no stamp or courier label on it, addressed to him in clear, bold print. Feeling a slight fluttering of anticipation, Greg tore it open, reached inside and pulled out a Ticketmaster folder containing two premium tickets to Saturday’s game. Surely not. He took a second look, then slumped down into his ancient chair, which groaned in protest. Getting to see Arsenal live would be an absolute treat, but who was he supposed to go with? Was his secret admirer hoping to go with him? If so, that absolutely excluded his number one choice, whom he was sure would rather spend the afternoon having his fingernails pulled. Also, he had promised the day to Kayla, and nothing less than a Sherlock-worthy murder would keep him from that promise. Tipping the envelope up in search of further clues allowed a small card to drop out. On it was written “Best wishes to your niece. I trust that you and she will enjoy the match”. All of a sudden Greg felt the tell-tale prickle of imminent tears.

Shit.

This was opening a whole new category of feelings for Greg, who had always been the caretaker, the maker of gestures and compromises. For someone to gift him an experience to share with Kayla made him feel more cared for and seen than he had in his life so far. It would take an incredibly perceptive and resourceful person to have set this up. The field was narrowing, but Greg still didn’t allow himself more than a few moments to dream...


	4. Chapter 4

Greg stormed into his office, cursing the idiot who had doused both him and themselves in petrol, luckily also soaking said idiot's matches so that they wouldn't light. His shoes were safe, but the suit and tie were a lost cause. At least he had a spare… that was at the dry cleaners down the road. Shit "Donovan!" he yelled, "How much will it cost for you to go and grab my suit from the cleaners?".

"Just a coffee, boss". 

"Really?" 

"Sure, anything for you." Sally pushed his office door half shut and lifted a blue and gold garment bag down from the hook on the back, completely failing to hide a smirk. "This got dropped off yesterday. You still owe me that coffee, though." 

Since when did his dry-cleaner deliver? No time to worry about that, he had an hour until he was due in court, clean, tidy and not smelling like the forecourt of a petrol station. He grabbed the suit, along with the emergency shirt and underwear from his cupboard (he'd taken to keeping a stash of clothes at work since an unscheduled dip in the Thames, courtesy of Sherlock) and headed for the bathroom. Several minutes of cursing, elbow and knee banging later, Greg emerged from the glorified fish-tank that passed for a shower cubicle, smelling and feeling more or less human. After scrambling into his pants and shirt, Greg unzipped the garment bag and pulled out… not his suit. The jacket and trousers were nearly the same colour as his old suit, but the fabric was soft and luxurious to the touch. Looking closely, he could see that what had appeared to be plain grey was an artful blend of lighter and darker shades, almost giving life to the fabric as it moved. Greg resolutely ignored the slight flutter deep in his belly at the thought of the suit's origins and continued to dress. The suit, of course, fit perfectly, other than being a little snug in the seat area. Tamping down his disappointment that his 'admirer' could have made such a mistake, Greg finally looked in the mirror.

Shit.

The measurements hadn't been a mistake after all. The subtle cling and drape of the fabric combined to make his arse look the best it had done in years. Clearly, the source was someone with exquisite attention to detail, combined along with an intimate knowledge of men's tailoring and Greg's own personal measurements. What other measurements had the man worked out, his traitorous brain wondered. Feeling the heat rise in his cheeks, and elsewhere, Greg shelved the thought for later. Right now, he had a court hearing to focus on. Surely, though, there was only one person in Greg's world who fit that description...


End file.
